Dancing in the Dark

Austin, Texas The shrill sound cut through the night. It reached deep into Sara Martin's subconscious, jerking her from sleep, vanquishing her dream, dissipating like smoke on the wind. Angrily, she pushed upright, grabbing the phone. "Hello?" The line was silent, except for the soft hiss that meant someone was there. "Hello?" She wasn't certain why she asked again. He never answered. Just waited, listening. As if he knew what he was interrupting-but that was impossible. With a release of breath, she slammed the receiver into the cradle, dismissing the prank. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Not anymore. Moonlight, filtering through the curtains, cast intricate shadows across the room, and she watched as they danced across the ceiling. Closing her eyes, she tried to recapture the dream, but as always it was illusive, coming only when it chose, never on demand. Tears welled, and she pushed them away. Time, it seemed, did not heal wounds. It only left them to fester, the memory of all that was good tantalizing in its obscurity. Here in the dark, reality seemed a cruel joke. A punishment for a crime she'd never committed. Still fighting tears, she reached for the lamp, and with the flick of a switch banished the shadows back into the night. Reflexively, she turned, her eyes searching the pillow next to hers. Wanting to find an indentation, a scent. Anything. She traced the contours of the pillow, letting her imagination remember other times. Better times. But they were gone, along with her husband and son. Forever. Squeezing her eyes shut, she rolled over, fighting for control. It was always worse at night. Maybe it would be best if she'd just stop dreaming. At least that way the past would stay where it was supposed to be. But even as she had the thought, she knew she didn't mean it. The dreams were all she had left. The smell was the first thing he noticed, and it wasn't as if he were new to crime scenes. But this one was bad. He could tell just from the sickly sweet stench of decaying flesh. With a sigh, Eric D'Angelo pushed past the crowd of homeless people and ducked under the yellow tape, steeling himself for the task at hand. No matter how many murder scenes he worked, it was always one too many. "Wondered if you were going to grace us with your presence." Tony Haskins ambled over as if it were Sunday at the park. His partner's girth and slow gait hid an astute mind and a quick wit. "I was across town, and there were a few things I had to handle before I could leave." "Right." Haskins' eyebrows rose, not missing a beat. "Anyone I know?" "No." The single word brooked no further discussion. "So what have we got here?" "Dead female. Caucasian. Looks to be somewhere between sixteen and twenty, and based on the clothing, I'd say she was a little bit more than just the kid next door." Tony shifted so that Eric could see the body. A woman was sprawled beside a Dumpster, refuse scattered around her like a picture frame. Even without Tony's caustic comment, he'd have guessed at her profession. The gold lame halter combined with the hiphugging skirt could have been considered chic, if it weren't for the fact that they were about two sizes too small. A smear of lipstick marred one cheek, blood staining the other, the two reds at odds with each other, the effect garish. "She was left like this?" Eric frowned, trying to visualize the situation. "No." Tony shook his head. "The guy over there found her. Evidently he pulled her out of the Dumpster to get at the stuff underneath, and then couldn't be bothered to call it in." "Or wasn't able to tell the living from the dead.&qDavis, Dee is the author of 'Dancing in the Dark' with ISBN 9780804119788 and ISBN 0804119783.